Love

So a couple of months ago
love walks through my front door,
bangs his head on the pots and pans
hanging from my ceiling and he's been here ever since.

He asks to hear my poetry and then cries
as my lonely voice rises like steam from spaghetti
in my crowded little kitchen.
He drinks all the beer and spills some while he's at it.

I’ll be honest, love seems clumsy.
He drops things.
He washes my dishes, breaks my favorite mug
then cuts his thumb while trying to repair it.

Love often second guesses himself.
He worries that he's not enough
as the stars sprinkle themselves
like confetti across the sky.
I beg him not to waste these precious moments
on fear and doubt.
He cannot help himself.

But this is not all that love does.
Love helps me move and insists
upon carrying all the heavy things.
He stays right by my side when I’m sick
and whispers sweet butterfly
as I throw up in a trash can.

This crazy love thinks that everything I cook is delicious.

He calls me a poet in a voice that is hushed
and awestricken, as if I'd singlehandedly
cured cancer and then he proceeds to send me
text messages worthy of Whitman.

When love puts his arms around me,
it’s like swimming in a stream
that has been warmed by the sun all summer long.

Sweet and true.
Strong and deep.

When he looks my way,
love catches his breath a little sometimes.
I can see it
and then his glorious smile lights up the world.

Love dreams with me in the inky blackness of my room
and when he mutters in his sleep,
I can hear my name sewn
like bits of lace between the layers of his words.

Love drives me hours to meet his father,
singing cowboy songs at the top of his lungs,
his hand tapping his heart on my thigh.

When I step forward to shake dad's hand,
love's face looks exactly like
that of a small boy on Christmas morning,

Love is gifted in the ways of the night and knows exactly
how to tangle his hands in my hair.

But the very best thing that love does is this -
he says beautiful, honey pie.
Do what you want.
Be who you are and don't you let anyone stop you,
including me.
Spread those glorious wings and fucking fly,
and I think he means it.

So does it matter what we call each other? 
What words we use? Do I need to nail this shit down?

No, because words don’t even do it justice.

This is cocaine and coffee.
This is lightning in my veins.
This is big.
It’s laughter down deep in my belly and
the inside of a tiny cottage warmed by the flicker and flame of hope.

Motherfucking hope.

It is enough to know that this is love
​and I will take it and fly.
I will hold out my hands and ask for more.